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The View From Planet Kerth: A memory of the (almost) perfect Halloween costume

Well, that’s what I thought when Mom showed me the Frankenstein mask I would be wearing that year when I was 8 or 9 years old. But I should have known better right from the start.

For one thing, it was a hand-me-down from my neighborhood friend, Larry. He had worn it the previous year when we went trick-or-treating, and I should have known that if it had truly been as perfect as it seemed to me, he would be wearing it again this year instead of letting his mom give it to my mom.

It was one of those whole-head rubber masks with nothing more than a pair of eye-hole slits to see through, and it should have been a clue to me that Larry spent most of last year’s candy-gathering assault dashing up to front doors with his candy bag in one hand and that beautiful mask in the other instead of on his head, where it belonged. I suppose today it would make a great movie sequel to have the Frankenstein monster tear off his face and carry it around in his hand, but this was the mid-1950’s, when monsters hadn’t yet learned that trick because they were scary enough as it was.

But I remembered none of that when Mom handed me that perfect Frankenstein mask. All I could think of was that Halloween would fall on a school day this year, and Mrs. Mandel had invited us to wear our trick-or-treat outfits to class.

I don’t remember if Mrs. Mandel was offering a big prize for the best costume, but it seemed that way in my mind. After all, whenever I won a footrace in the alley I didn’t need an actual crowd of fans for me to hear their adoring cheers, and whenever I struck out the side while pitching a rubber ball against the front steps, I didn’t need to see actual blinding flashbulbs for me to tip my hat to the stands. So, was there a prize for me to win with that perfect Frankenstein mask? Sure, why not?

My usual Halloween routine was to go as a hobo, because there was no shortage of worn-out shirts and pants and beat-up shoes waiting in my closet. All that was needed to complete the outfit was a scruffy beard smudged on with a burnt wine cork, and there was no shortage of wine corks, either.

But this year would be different, because that hand-me-down rubber Frankenstein mask was perfect.

Well, almost.

The trouble started when we filed into the classroom, each of us proud of our outfit, but none more proud than I was, for I felt I had been fully transformed into a monster that would have caused Boris Karloff to tip his hat to me. Mrs. Mandel gasped at the beauty of the girls — who were all princesses of one stamp or another — before she turned her attention to us boys.

And when she got to me, she said, “Oh, my! When did Frankenstein’s monster join our class? I can’t even tell who is inside that mask!”

I felt my head swim with pride.

Or maybe it was the lack of oxygen.

Or maybe it was the cloying smell of my own breath. By now I had gone way past being reminded of that morning’s breakfast, and was starting to catch notes of last night’s dinner. And that deeper scent — was that my liver or pancreas? Or maybe even Larry’s?

And when she said my name, I yanked off the mask with a mix of disappointment and relief. I gulped the cool, bracing air of the classroom, sweet with the scent of white paste and art gum erasers.

“But how did you know?” I asked.

She smiled and pointed at my feet. “Your new shoes,” she said.

I looked down and saw that she was right. I had gotten new shoes just the week before, and I was so proud of them I had forgotten to swap them out for some more appropriate monster footwear. After all, what real Frankenstein’s monster would make a quick stop at a Thom McCan’s store on his way to pillage the village?

As I said, I don’t know if there was a classroom contest that year, but all I know is that I didn’t win it. I couldn’t wait for the school day to end so I could turn my attention to the real Halloween business of the day.

When the school day finally ended, Larry and I went trick-or-treating. I don’t remember what costume he wore, but I wore the perfect costume of a new-shod monster who carried his face in his hand.

And I think the following year I wore those same shoes as the perfect finishing touch for my hobo’s costume.

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The author splits his time between Southwest Florida and Chicago. Not every day, though. Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com. Why wait a whole week for your next visit to Planet Kerth? Get T.R.'s book, 'Revenge of the Sardines,' available now at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other fine online book distributors. His column appears every Saturday.